“People!”
They were standing in the churchyard, walled up high above the town street, and as the Churchwarden spoke the old clerk placed his left hand across the small of his back, and stamping his stick on the cobble stones of the path, he made an effort to straighten himself up so as to gaze at the venerable mouldering square-towered church, taking it in from end to end with his pale grey eyes before resuming his former attitude with his head on one side.
“Not going to have another clerk?” he quavered.
“No,” roared the Churchwarden.
“No one to say t’ amens and ’sponses?”
“No.”
“Who’s t’ help him on wi’ his gownd?”
The Churchwarden shook his head.
“Who’s going to shut pulpit door?”
There was another shake of the Churchwarden’s head.